EllaWheelerWilcox
Therewasafairgardensloping
Fromthesoutheastsideofthemountain-ledge;
Andtheearliesttintofthedawncamegroping
Downthroughitspaths, fromtheday’sdimedge.
Thebluestskiesandthereddestroses
Archedandvarieditsvelvetsod;
Andthegladbirdssang, asthesoulsupposes
TheangelssingonthehillsofGod.
Iwanderedtherewhenmyveinsseemedbursting
Withlife’srarerapture, andkeendelight;
Andyetinmyheartwasaconstantthirsting
Forsomethingoverthemountain-height.
Iwantedtostandintheblazeofglory
Thatturnedtocrimsonthepeaksofsnow,
Andthewindsfromthewestallbreathedastory
OfrealmsandregionsIlongedtoknow.
Isawonthegarden’ssouthsidegrowing
ThebrightestblossomsthatbreatheofJune;
Isawintheeasthowthesunwasglowing,
Andthegoldairshookwithawildbird’stune;
Iheardthedripofasilverfountain,
Andthepulseofayounglaughthrobbedwithglee;
ButstillIlookedoutoverthemountain
Whereunnamedwondersawaitedme.
Icameatlasttothewesterngateway
ThatledtothepathIlongedtoclimb;
Butashadowfellonmyspiritstraightway,
ForcloseatmysidestoodgreybeardTime.
Ipaused, withfeetthatwerefaintolinger
Hardbythatgarden’sgoldengate;
ButTimespoke, pointingwithonesternfinger;
“Passon,”hesaid, “forthedaygrowslate.”
AndnowonthechillgreycliffsIwander;
TheheightsrecedewhichIthoughttofind,
Andthelightseemsdimonthemountainyonder,
WhenIthinkofthegardenIleftbehind.
ShouldIstandatlastonitssummit’ssplendor,
Iknowfullwellitwouldnotrepay
Forthefairlosttintsofthedawnsotender
